


Forged By Fire

by cywscross



Series: "___ Me" Drabble Prompts [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter Hale, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Burns, Gen, M/M, Post-Season/Series 01, Pre-Slash, Sick Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 02:54:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7135580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cywscross/pseuds/cywscross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Allison fired that arrow, Stiles doubts she remembered that fire tends to <em>spread</em> when it comes into contact with flammable material, and as Peter screams and staggers and thrashes like he’s trying to physically buck off the flames eating away at his body for the second time in his life, one of his arms glances off a tree, and before they know it, three trees and the surrounding grass have all been set ablaze, and in the ensuing smoke-filled inferno, Peter manages to escape.</p><p>A week later, Stiles almost keels over from a heart attack when he comes home from school and finds Peter on the floor of his bedroom, skin charred red and black, clothes a tattered mess, and his life undoubtedly parked at death’s doorstep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forged By Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nezstorm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nezstorm/gifts).



> _bxdcubes said: Or Nurse Me and steter? :D_
> 
> Shorter this time, thank god, although it’s still longer than the 2000 word max gdi. But I am running on fumes.

 

“ _Jesus fucking H. Christ_ ,” Stiles wheezes out, stumbling back and all but flattening himself against the far wall, eyes glued on the body on his bedroom floor.

For a long, frozen minute, Stiles is sure, absolutely one hundred percent sure, that Peter is dead, and for some reason, the psycho decided to do it in Stiles’ room.  Didn’t even have the courtesy to go die out in the woods and save Stiles the trouble of _explaining the dead body to a Sheriff dad_ , and his mind promptly races off, already pulling together a dozen different threads for a dozen different plans on how to deal with a corpse without getting himself into trouble, without getting Scott into trouble, without getting his dad into trouble, and preferably without anyone ever knowing what happened.

But then his panic begins to ebb, heart rate coming back down bit by bit, and – slowly, carefully – Stiles peels himself off the wall and shuffles a cautious step forward.

Peter doesn’t move.  At all.  Which would make sense for a corpse, but – upon closer observation – Stiles realizes that the werewolf’s chest is still moving.  Very slightly, very sluggishly, but definitely still breathing.

He should call the police, Stiles thinks dimly even as he takes another step towards the prone figure lying on the ground.  For once, he should just call the goddamn police and let the professionals handle this.

But the police are hardly that, the Sheriff still doesn’t know a thing about the supernatural, so basically the only professionals on werewolves that Stiles knows all just want to torture and/or kill them, and Stiles… Stiles can be heartless but apparently not _that_ heartless.  Besides, he owes Chris Argent nothing, and the last time Stiles checked, Allison went and shot her boyfriend.  Sure, she was probably more than a little out of her depth after finding out about the supernatural world, but _Stiles_ didn’t go shooting up his best friend after he discovered it.  So he’s certainly not about to go out of his way to make the Argents’ lives even remotely easier, and he _really_ doesn’t want his dad involved.  The Sheriff’s suspicious enough, _disappointed_ enough, in Stiles without Stiles adding more crazy to the plate. 

With a sigh and another five steps, Stiles finally crouches down beside Peter, almost gagging when the stench of burnt flesh invades his nostrils, with the images to match, all cracked blackened skin still oozing blood.

There’s just _so much damage_.  Stiles is looking at the man and he still can’t quite believe that Peter actually _survived_.

Again.

The guy’s a werewolf though, and an Alpha, so maybe that helped a little.

What Stiles doesn’t get is why the hell Peter came to _him_.  What can Stiles do?  The last time they saw each other, he helped the others set Peter on fire!  And now… Does Peter expect Stiles to save him?  Take care of him?  Even if Stiles decides to do that, he hasn’t the first clue how to go about it.

He’s never seen someone so injured.  He doesn’t even know where to put his hands without hurting the werewolf even more.

He hesitates for a moment longer, inwardly debating the pros and cons of just putting the bastard out of his misery.  Seriously, if their positions were switched, _Stiles_ would probably prefer death to… to _this_.

He groans quietly and rubs a hand over his face.  This shouldn’t be such a difficult decision.  Peter bit Scott and went on a killing spree; practically anyone else in Stiles’ place would’ve already hauled them off to either the nearest hunter or the nearest grave.

And yet.

And yet, Peter _came to him_.  Stiles has no idea why but…

He heaves a sigh, squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again, makes up his damn mind, and gets down to business.

First, he scrambles up again and heads to the bathroom to wash his hands before raiding the medicine cabinet.  He goes downstairs and digs out the portable kettle before bringing it back upstairs to fill it and get started on boiling a lot of water.  He grabs his laptop and looks up every possible way to treat fourth-degree burns that doesn’t involve _take the burn victim to the hospital duh_.

He doesn’t touch Peter until he’s changed his bedsheets and snapped on some disposable gloves.  Infection shouldn’t be _quite_ as big a concern for a werewolf as it is for a human but Stiles wants to be as careful as he can be anyway.

Which isn’t much, considering the sheer surreality of the situation, but if he’s doing this, as insane as it sounds, then he might as well do it properly.

Two hundred pounds of burnt werewolf is no picnic to lift but Stiles manages, half-dragging, half-heaving Peter onto his bed before stripping him down to his birthday suit, grimacing at the trail of blood and flaky dead skin that’s left behind.  Come to think of it – Stiles checks his window and- yeah, two bloody handprints and other red smears around the windowsill, along with more dead skin and even a few tufts of fur.

Wonderful.

He takes a deep breath.  Swallows hard.  Gets to work.

First and foremost, Stiles is really banking on werewolf healing.  Under normal circumstances, there’s no way he would be able to do _anything_ with the contents of a titchy little medical kit and some painkillers, but then again, under normal circumstances, Stiles wouldn’t have to deal with this sort of situation at all.  Normality left indefinitely for parts unknown the moment Beacon Hills became the next Sunnydale though, so Stiles _does_ have to deal with this, and hopefully, he can do that until his impromptu patient is – relatively – well enough again for his healing factor to really kick in.

Peter’s skin is clammy, but there’s also a sickly heat simmering under his burns that worries Stiles.  Still, he focuses on cleaning the burns first, wiping away dirt and dead skin, sweat and blood and pus, over and over and over again with gentle hands.

The stink of death never quite fades though.

 

* * *

 

It takes hours.  Hours of Stiles slaving over the wreck of a body that is Peter.  It’s gross, and Stiles has to admit temporary defeat and take a break more than once or risk throwing up before diving back in again.  He can actually _see bone_ in some areas, and he has to clean them too.

Peter barely twitches throughout the entire ordeal.  His breathing is shallow and laboured, rattling in his chest, and after Stiles covers his the – thankfully not as serious – burns on his forehead with gauze, he also has to lay an icepack over it because on top of every-fucking-thing else, the werewolf also has a fever.

If Stiles were religious, he’d say God was giving him a message, and it wouldn’t be _save him_.

It’s dawn by the time Stiles is finished.  Sort of.  He collapses into his desk chair, peeling off his fifth pair of gloves and tossing them into the trash bag at his feet before letting his head loll back.  Then lolls forward again despite his exhaustion, raking a critical eye over his amateur handiwork.

Peter looks more mummy than man at this point, front and back and almost head to toe covered in fresh gauze, but at least his burns have stopped dribbling blood and other bodily fluids, his breathing doesn’t sound quite as harsh in his lungs, and his temperature has fallen a few degrees.  Still feverish but no longer as bad.  Stiles damn near cheered when – just a mere two hours ago – he spotted one of Peter’s more minor burns begin to knit itself back together.  He almost missed it because the healing rate was so gradual, but he forced himself not to look for thirty minutes, and when he checked back again, the flesh was definitely more dark pink than dark red and was no longer as inflamed as before.

Peter even woke – very briefly – an hour ago, eyelids fluttering open to reveal febrile blue eyes that couldn’t quite focus even as his body jerked like he wanted to sit up.  Stiles managed to keep him lying down and mostly calm, even coaxing some water down his throat before the werewolf was out like a light again.

Stiles leans forward, elbows on his thighs, and releases a long, drawn-out breath.  He still needs to mop up the blood from his windowsill and possibly the lawn _and_ the side of the house.  Then there’s the trash to take out, bedsheets to change again so that Peter isn’t lying in his own filth, and then waking the werewolf to at least get some more water into him because Peter needs to stay hydrated.

Thank fuck his dad is out of town, and Stiles never thought he’d think that.  He certainly has new appreciation for Melissa’s job.

He rubs the back of his neck, shrugging to try and alleviate some of the built-up stress there.  A futile effort apparently.

He gets to his feet.  Back to work.  It’s a good thing it’s Saturday, although at this rate, he’ll inevitably be skipping school anyway.

 

* * *

 

Peter wakes on and off over the course of the next four days as the very worst of his burns begin to heal at agonizingly slow speeds, but _they heal_.

And on Tuesday night, shortly after Stiles finishes giving the werewolf a sponge bath and even filling a basin with warm water to wash his hair, Peter opens his eyes, and for the first time since the werewolf unceremoniously invaded Stiles’ bedroom, he _looks_ at Stiles, bleary but _aware_.

“…S’iles?”  Peter croaks out muzzily, lacking the energy for even wariness to take root.

“Hey,” Stiles peers down at him.  “You have no idea how happy I am that you’re finally with me again, and I bet neither of us ever thought I’d say that, huh?”

Peter doesn’t seem to have understood most of that.  Instead, he just mumbles again, “S’iles.”

Stiles squints at him, hand automatically going to Peter’s forehead – the pink of new skin – to check his temperature.  It’s almost habit by now to then comb back the surprisingly wild damp curls of Peter’s hair with absent fingers.

“Well your fever’s almost gone,” Stiles muses.  “But the burns must still hurt a lot I guess.  I don’t think you’re delirious though.”

Peter blinks at him.  Then his right hand jolts to life, muscles straining as his arm trembles its way up until weak fingers slip around Stiles’ wrist.

A kitten could give Peter a run for his money in the strength department right now.  Stiles can pull away at any time.

He doesn’t, and he very firmly refuses to look any deeper into why not.

Peter doesn’t speak again.  Neither does Stiles.  When the werewolf drifts off into a somewhat more peaceful slumber, Stiles stays, Peter’s hand a warm reminder around his wrist.

 

* * *

 

Chicken noodle soup is a cure for everything; Stiles’ nana always swore by it, which is why Stiles serves it and watches like a hawk to make sure Peter spoons up every last mouthful.

Peter – two days later and finally sitting up with three cushions and two pillows at his back – has the gall to look amused, although the expression pulls at his face in a way that makes his features look a bit lopsided since a particularly nasty burn lingers from brow to jaw on the left side of his face.

“Stop smirking or I’m not helping you hobble to the bathroom for that bath you want,” Stiles scowls.  “You’ll have to crawl.”

“I crawled here,” Peter idly reveals out of the blue, voice still a hoarse rasp like his vocal chords have been sandpapered.

Stiles stiffens, fingers twitching in his lap.  He stuffs them under his thighs.  “…Yeah, about that – what is it with werewolves and windows?  Do you not know how to use the front door?  And are manners a thing of the past these days?  You’re supposed to give a heads-up _before_ you go and collapse on other people’s floors.”

Peter… watches him, not quite smiling, not even smirking, but there’s a softness in the intent way he regards Stiles, and it makes Stiles want to squirm.

“I’ll be sure to call ahead next time,” Peter volleys back lightly.  He cocks his head.  “But you didn’t kick me out.  Or put a bullet in me.  Or even call an Argent to do it.”

Stiles’ lips thin, and he involuntarily bristles.  “If I ever need to kill someone, I won’t need an Argent to do my dirty work.”

This time, Peter does smile, just for a moment, faint and quick before the pain spikes too much.  “Yes, I can believe that.”

Stiles scoffs.  “Can you?  ’Cause _you_ came to _me_.  You came _here_ , after I set you on fire-”

“My memory is perfectly intact, Stiles,” Peter cuts him off with a dry twist to his voice.  “So I remember quite clearly who set me on fire, and it wasn’t you.”  He tips his head in consideration, something bitter and terrible and dripping with a dark sort of amusement flickering across his face.  “It was another Argent.  Life does enjoy its little jokes, doesn’t it?”

Stiles… doesn’t really know what to say to that.  It’s not like anything he _could_ say would make a difference.  Would make things better.

“…I threw the Molotov cocktail,” He says instead, and the words come out in almost petulant tones.  Even he isn’t certain which of the two of them he’s aiming that at.

“Darling boy, there is no such thing as a self-igniting Molotov cocktail, as I’m sure you knew already,” Peter says dismissively.  “I assume you treated the bottle somehow so that it would explode if it touched the contents?  But nothing would’ve happened if the Argent girl didn’t shoot it, and I think…” His head cants again, the look in his eyes far too knowing.  “I think out of all the people there, you were the very last person who expected Scott McCall to throw that bow.”

Stiles sits very, very still and doesn’t say a word for a very still moment.  Peter just smiles again, not pity, not even smugness.  A very calm, very resigned sort of commiseration instead, perhaps.

“I still don’t know why you came here of all places though,” Stiles mutters at last, scrubbing a weary hand through his hair.  “I don’t even know why I let you stay.  I should’ve just dumped your ass right back out the window.”

“Well that would certainly be a tale to tell at the neighbour’s next family barbeque,” Peter murmurs, and Stiles can’t quite hold back the snort of laughter that splutters out of him.  Peter meets his gaze evenly.  “You let me stay.  And that’s why I came.  Because anyone else, Stiles, they would’ve either killed me on sight or called the authorities, and by authorities, I very much mean hunters.”

I thought about doing both those things too!”  Stiles huffs defensively.

“But you didn’t go through with either,” Peter shrugs, and then winces.  He finishes off the last of his soup.  Stiles takes the empty bowl and sets it on the nightstand.  When he looks back, he almost startles at the feel of Peter’s hand sliding over his own.

“You understand,” The werewolf says in tones almost too soft for Stiles to hear, eyes an unblinking blue as they drill into Stiles’ own.  “You understand why I did it, why I killed those people, killed Kate.  You even understand why I killed Laura.  And that’s why you helped me.”

Stiles opens his mouth.  Then he shuts it again when nothing comes out.  The thump of his heart feels loud in his ears.

Peter pats his hand but then doesn’t actually pull away.  Instead, he leans back against the cushions with a sigh and closes his eyes.

He falls asleep like that, easily, with far more trust than Stiles ever though Peter would give.

He stares down at their hands.

He thinks he made a choice that afternoon, the moment he decided to keep Peter here, to save him rather than kill him.

The thought doesn’t make him happy.  But, ominously enough, it doesn’t upset him either.

Well.  Shit.

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Please leave a review on your way out.**


End file.
